


The Inbetween

by superblue



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Gen, Hallucinations, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Johnlock Roulette, Pining Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-22
Updated: 2014-11-22
Packaged: 2018-02-26 15:36:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2657309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superblue/pseuds/superblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A slight companion piece to "...a bit smoked." Sherlock's inner thoughts when he famously fell off the bandwagon in the beginning of His Last Vow. What does one see when they are trying to escape reality? Who does one think of when all they're trying to do is forget?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Inbetween

It used to be a music box.

Now, it sat on the floor silently, its inner workings (one pewter pronged cylinder caressed by stiffly plinking tines) long since removed by large, sweaty hands. Years ago, it trilled forth some version of a once-loved classical melody: Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring, Swan Lake, maybe Greensleeves, he couldn't be bothered to remember. Remembering wouldn't serve him well; the small wooden box was empty now and obliquely faced the filthy mattress holding the disparate form of a formerly dignified man.

Over time, the box had taken on a smooth, mellowed finish; a dull patina of age, dirt, and the oils from a little boy's fingertips. Inside, the burgundy felt lining had become thin in some places but remained deeper hued and plush in corners hidden from the harshness of the world. It used to be a music box, a treasure chest, a keeper of gems and stones, a secret world, a place to stash a coarse thatch of auburn dog hair, or small vials of white powder and a tuberculin syringe.

All of this was gone now, and the box vibrated with hollowness. Only a short time ago it had held love, desire, and the kind of ecstasy that could only come from the end of a needle. Only minutes ago, it held his oblivion.

He had long ago used up his stash and he hadn't bothered to hide the heroin from the others who languished in this forgotten and decrepit hole. For now, the drugs whirled and sparked in his system. He heaved in great big gusty breaths, feeling the air move in and out of his lungs like the tingling one gets when placing their tongue on a battery.

However could he have thought his previous life was better than this exact moment?

That duplicitous pantomime of normalcy and _wedding planning_ and _telegrams,_ was a fallacy. It was a lie so cleverly constructed, so beautifully formed on his face (a winking, smiling face), that not even his closest friend and confidant (love?) could spare a second glance and wonder. 

A shiver engulfed his entire body, squeezing a low groan of what sounded like anguish from his thin frame. But it wasn't anguish that released itself from between the full parted lips, it was pleasure. It was _good._

_God. It was so, so good._

Another wave of near orgasmic sensation pulsed up and down his nervous system, raking its feather-like fingers across the surface of his skin till every single hair stood on end like fine blades of soft blue grass. He was pliable and viscous, breathing but inhaling the air through his skin. And it was _good. So, so good._

 _“So…what’s all this then?”_ A familiar tenor, masculine and clean, whispered near his ear. The voice fluttered and congealed to apple green in his inner ear, rolling softly and unbruised through his brain. He barely managed to tilt his head to the side, watery eyes opening into weeping slits. Through pinpoint pupils he saw Captain Watson kneeling by his side. His face was warm, and smiling; open, admiring, and beautiful.

Except, it wasn’t Captain Watson at all. It was Not Captain Watson. He wasn’t really here. Sherlock could tell by the electric radio lines that split his face lengthwise, traveling in millimeters to the left and right simultaneously. Sherlock could tell by the gaping shoulder wound that currently streamed sluggish arterial blood down the front of his ruined fatigues, that this was definitely Not Captain Watson. His insensate gaze focused dazedly on the mangled wound and watched as gouts of blood oozed down onto the unfinished and filthy cement floor. The clotted mass quivered for a moment, then formed crude pseudopods and wetly lurched its way towards the empty music box.

Not Captain Watson scowled. _“Look alive soldier! How the hell did you find yourself in this godforsaken shithole?”_

Sherlock could barely huff a laugh. His chest hitched slightly, his organs sloshing about his thoracic cavity. His slitted eyes began to tear; he couldn’t remember the last time he had blinked.

 _“I said, get up soldier!”_ Not Captain Watson’s voice was stern and unyielding. He meant what he said, but Sherlock’s lips pulled back in a half-hearted grimace. He wouldn’t take orders from Not Captain Watson, he was not _his_.

Not Captain Watson’s face suddenly became blank, his squared and suntanned jaw slack. A hint of surprise at the lack of his subordinate’s response brushed against his lips just as a large gash began to split open at the crown of his sun-bleached head. Sand began to fall slowly, trickling really, bottlenecked through his paranasal sinuses like an hourglass before picking up speed and ending in a khaki torrent that formed a small pile at the edge of the stained mattress. The entirety of Not Captain Watson’s face then began to disintegrate into sand, the mass of his body (fatigues, combat boots, clinking iridescent dog tags) devolving before Sherlock’s eyes, leaving nothing but a gritty pile of quartz, coral, and fish bones…remnants of a Triassic sea long since evaporated into the ether.

Sherlock’s pale, thin hand reached out limply to touch the remains. It felt like sea foam.

He blinked hard, and managed to lift his head from his flattened, filthy pillow; a trail of sputum connected the edge of one slack lip to the worn cotton surface. He desperately wanted to laugh again, but all he could manage was a weak smile and rough rush of air rattling through his lips, reminiscent of the sound a child makes when first trying to play the trombone. He curled his legs up further into the fetal position, making his joints creak with bursts of tactile pleasure and sensation. _God it was so good._

 _“Sherlock, I hope you plan on cleaning this up. Mrs. Hudson will have a fit. Not your housekeeper, remember?”_ A sturdy metal cane ground its way through the pile of prehistoric sand, its rubber stopper clearing a path for two brown brogues. John Watson was here again, his back military straight, handsome in his coat and checkered shirt. He was just like the first time Sherlock laid eyes on him, thinner than his previous incarnation, and his face far more defeated and saddened than Sherlock preferred.

Inside his chest, his heart thumped sporadically, throwing pre-ventricular contractions like square bits of colored paper at a wedding.

A wedding…

This was also not his John Watson, this invalided, infirm, shell of a man. Though beautiful in his sadness, this Not Invalid John Watson wasn’t yet Sherlock’s. He hadn’t yet felt the addictive sense of purpose and mystery, felt the agony of at the end of a knife blade, or the screech of a badly man-handled violin (go away Mycroft). This John hadn’t saved Sherlock yet, this one Sherlock hadn’t yet saved.

The bright gaseous bubbles in Sherlock’s bloodstream bobbed around pleasantly, continuing to spill vaporous pleasure in little bursts in his brain; but his high had peaked, the initial rush was evening out. It cloaked his muscles and skin in a warm, warm layer of static electricity. He wondered briefly if he could just reach out and touch Not Invalid John Watson’s ear, would a spark fly from his fingertip to the man’s head? How ironic and utterly symbolic of the useless sensibilities wasting away in his withered heart.

 _“Well, I suppose there is nothing for it then, yeah? Wouldn’t want Mrs. H to find this mess. You remember what she said one of the first times I met you? ‘Sherlock! The mess you’ve made!’”_ Not Invalid John Watson knelt down, stiffly placing his bad leg under him, though it pained him to do so. Slowly, and with great care, he began to scoop the camel colored grains into the music box. There it rested atop the clotted mass of viscera left behind by Not Captain John Watson. How sweet that Not Captain had left a calling card, did he leave his number as well? He would have liked to have known that version of John quite a bit better.

Sherlock shifted minutely, mustering as much strength as he could to reach out to this man, though Not Invalid John Watson largely ignored his efforts. Sherlock ended up lying almost on his chest with his legs still bent and on their sides, his chilled and sweat covered arm stretching on the cement floor in an effort to touch the man, the man who wasn’t there. This wasn’t the man who married someone else and left Sherlock to steep in his own loneliness, till his heart became as pickled and brined as the mini-gherkins his mummy used to serve at New Year’s parties. This wasn’t the man who carried Sherlock’s passionate hopes in his hands or maybe shoved down deep into his pockets next to his gun, take-away curry, and warm lovely jumpers.

Oh, Sherlock. The mess you’ve made (of yourself).

Searing flashes of light flitted behind his eyeballs, leaving painless trails of stardust and bursts of something akin to the great storm on Jupiter. He closed them against the onslaught, his eyes thanking him for blinking again (finally) and rejuvenating their lubrication. Sherlock fancied they had almost become brilliantly colored dried husks in his skull; the brown spot in his right iris (Jupiter’s great storm) would have been particularly annoyed at this.

When again he opened his eyes, the shapeless mass of sand had gone, and so had Not Invalid John Watson. Sherlock was immensely grateful. He couldn’t recall hallucinating quite so badly during his previous forays into the seedy underworld of injectable poppy fields. It was possible his current stash had been tainted, he almost regretted using it all…he could have taken some back to 221B for analysis.

A thin trail of breath escaped his lungs, now that he found himself alone. At least this was a feeling he was used to. All these other _thoughts_ , these _emotions_ were impeding his ability to just enjoy his high. He was being horrendously interrupted by Johns. These Johns monopolized his thoughts when he was sober, and his shadows clung needlessly to his psyche while intoxicated. It wasn’t fair. _It wasn’t fair._

_“Why didn’t you run, Sherlock?”_

Oh god, oh GOD. It was that voice again. _He_ was back again. _Why was he back again?_ Sherlock couldn’t take much more of this. He twisted his head towards the sound of the voice so quickly, the world swirled in a mass of streaking colors, finally settling on John Watson strapped to a Semtex vest.

This was by far the worst yet. This was a mockery of one of the most painful and significant moments of his life. It didn’t deserve to be revisited. He didn’t want to see this again.

“J-John…” These felt like the first words he had spoken in an eon. In his mind, layers upon layers of dust and bones had condensed into carbon, then diamonds in the amount of time it has been since he used his voice. “John, I couldn’t leave you. I…had to save you.” He passed his frigid hands over his face, pulling back moisture from his eyes and lips. The different viscosities fascinated him, the slightness of his tears as opposed to the thickness of his saliva. His voice sounded disused and rotten.

“I had to save you.”

The Not John Watson in a Semtex vest sighed sadly and shuffled his feet. His fingers reached up and fumbled about his ear, till he pulled out a small beige colored implant. It was the device Moriarty had placed in Not John Watson’s ear so he could order him about like an angry little marionette. Not John Watson in a Semtex vest took two steps and dropped the device into the box. It made no sound as it landed on the soft, quivering bed of sand.

 _“How many times are you going to save me, Sherlock?”_ He appeared vulnerable, expressively so, which was strange because Sherlock knew how difficult it was for him…these things. The radio lines quavered two and fro about his frame, his picture breaking up, his voice jumping back and forth. He was dissolving again, though this time it wasn’t sand. This time he was merely…disappearing.

Sherlock didn’t mean to leave his question unanswered; only he was choked by the lump of Moriarty’s dead fist lodged in his throat. He closed his eyes again. The electric feelings were leaving him, taking his body heat away, taking away his oblivion. He didn’t have any more heroin; and he could only convince himself that this was for Magnussen for so long. At first (he lied to himself) it was. _It was_. But, like every situation where John Watson was concerned, his synapses misfired. All those magnificent dendrites floating around in his brain, not touching ever, but communicating and existing and _being_ all the same. It was like he and John, almost but never quite touching.

He twitched violently, and jerked his arm out, fumbling for the gutted music box. It wasn’t empty anymore; it was full now of John Watson. He gripped it with one large hand and brought it to the empty space in the center of his chest. He let its mitered corners merge with his ratty sweatshirt and dematerialize, finally settling itself inside his thoracic cavity (where his heart would be). In his mind palace, it now sat on a table next to hastily scribbled note cards that read: deep blue eyes, sandy blonde hair with bits of grey, and philtrum.

As reality kicked back online, and the sensations that racked his abused body lessened, he knew the nausea would probably come soon. How long had he been here? Was there someone talking? Who the hell was talking? An unfamiliar voice warbled pathetically behind him, probably another young fool sat on a urine-soaked mattress, same as himself.

“Dr. Watson,” it whimpered, “where am I?”

“The arse-end of the universe with the scum of the Earth,” came the answer. Dr. John Watson answered. _The_ John Watson answered.

Sherlock opened his eyes immediately, new vibrating waveforms assaulting the hollow tubes of his ears. There was more to the quiet conversation behind him, but he could only focus on one voice. He mustered up what strength he could and lifted his head, propping his right elbow beneath him. Though his vision was blurry, he still saw him, Real John Watson. Real John Watson was crouching in front of a young man who appeared pale beneath his caramel colored skin. John’s back was to Sherlock, and he appeared to be giving this young man a good once over, checking his eyes and neck. Once a doctor always a doctor.

Sherlock could not get his attention fast enough.

“Ah, hello John,” again, his voice was cracked, his vocal cords angry at having been ignored for so long. “Did you come for me too?”

John stayed crouched and twisted on his toes to regard Sherlock’s rumpled form. His face was truly thunderous.

 

* * *

 

 

His eyeballs vibrated inside his skull, his eyelids twitching at the speed of light. How could he have been _so wrong?_ How could he, bloody Sherlock Holmes, have so utterly and completely misunderstood  Magnussen’s plan?

The searing lights from the helicopters butted against his vision as much as the air from their blades ruffled his hair. Beside him, John looked panicked and lost.

“Sherlock, what do we do?”  ( _“How many times are you going to save me, Sherlock?”)_

Sherlock slipped his hand inside John’s coat, feeling the chill of the gun metal even through his gloves.

“Oh, do your research,” the level of disgust and disdain for the spectacled man in front of him oozed from his mouth. Inside his mind palace the phantom music box burst open, snippets of John Watson floated in the room, reminders of their life together. Reminders of how many times he had been saved; how many times they had saved each other.

_I’ll save you, John, as many times as it takes._

“I’m not a hero,” Sherlock continued, stepping to stand next to odious man who dared threaten the ones he loved. “I’m a high-functioning sociopath.” He raised his arm, the tensile strength of his muscles keeping his grip firm and unwavering.

He didn’t even blink.

**_“Merry Christmas.”_ **

**Author's Note:**

> I am not really sure why I was drawn to write such ansty angstiness. But this idea popped into my head and I indulged myself. I enjoy writing missing scenes, or background scenes, or just things that aren't explicitly shown in the show while still remaining in canon. Many, many, many thanks for Jamlockk and OTP221B for being lovely betas. I have problems with commas, run-on sentences, verb tense....oh good god, the poor poor betas. 
> 
> Leave comments if you wish, or kudos. Or you could drop by and visit me on tumblr. My url is currently justsupergobblegobble (for Thanksgiving!) but usually it is justsuperblue.


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